


Plain Gold Ring's Got a Story to Tell

by Irrealia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, One Shot, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, Bilbo’s needs become more pressing than the novelties of the quest. He sneaks off, aided by the ring, but soon finds himself in danger of getting caught by dwarves on watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plain Gold Ring's Got a Story to Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [merryismaytime2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/merryismaytime2016) collection. 



For the first few weeks of the quest, Bilbo had been so overwhelmed by the experience that he hardly had time to feel anything save alternating wonder, discomfort, and fear. It was easy to set aside the growling of his stomach when all his muscles ached from sleeping rough; it was easy to set aside desire when unfamiliar vistas routinely set his soul alight with their beauty. It was easy to set aside thirst or sleep when wargs howled outside their camp in the night.

But hobbits are resourceful, adaptable creatures. For all that in later years Bilbo would be thought some perverse hobbit misfit, incapable of behaving decently in Shire society, his ability to adjust to the shifting circumstances of travel and adventure demonstrated that in this, at least, he was an exemplary hobbit. Truly, a model for others.

(And in later years, he would be this, too.)

In some ways, Bilbo toughened up as he travelled, although he would never be quite as hardy as a dwarf. His generous belly shrank, as did his stomach. He developed muscle under the fat of his arms and his thighs, for walking and riding. If he noticed hunger less after some time on the road, it was because he needed less.

In other ways, Bilbo became worldly, accustomed to extraordinary sights and unusual occurrences. He fought trolls, and dined with elves and bear-men. He crossed the Misty Mountains and lived to tell the tale. It was not that he was jaded, rather, it was that he had recalibrated his senses of “wonder” and “fear.”

And thus it was that other feelings, long since subsumed, began to resurface as Bilbo learned to live life on the road. Desire began to reassert itself. Bilbo was not troubled by this, no. He was a healthy hobbit in the prime of his life, even if he was often a bit dirtier and hungrier than he might prefer. It was only natural that he should feel certain urges, and indeed, the only surprising thing was that he had held them at bay for so long.

He did, however, feel very _inconvenienced_. In the wide-open Wilderland that lay between Beorn’s refuge and the hulking shadow of Mirkwood, amongst the rowdy and ever-present company of dwarves (and wizard) huddled close together for warmth and protection, there was simply no opportunity to ease the tension that gathered in his body. The land was grassy, the trees that might have provided shelter were sparse, and opportunities to absent himself from the company were scarce.

He had given up much of his hobbitish propriety on this journey, and if he no longer required perfect privacy for most of his business, well, that was unavoidable. But this, _this_ —this was one little bit of propriety that he meant to hold on to for as long as he might.

One night—and who could have said which day or night it was? For the hours dragged on and the days melted together, like crystallised honey—the moon was new and the fire was burning low. The works of Elbereth Gilthoniel made a fine display, for eyes open to see them. Bilbo was not yet asleep. His eyes were among those open, and he watched the stars whirl, the clouds flit past them, all the while fondling the little golden ring that was still in his pocket, that he had found in the goblin caves. He often found his hands drawn to it, the smooth curves of the metal pleasant against his finger, the motion of twirling it around an aid to thought. His thoughts, however, were less about the stars or the quest than they were about the hardness of the ground, the thinness of his bedroll relative to the hardness of the ground, the soft snoring of the dwarves around him, and the heavy ache between his legs. He felt unbearably swollen.

His middle finger dipped inside the ring almost sensually, and he could feel the shadows shifting around him. It was then that he realised how he could make a kind privacy for himself.

“Right then,” he said under his breath as he unwrapped himself from his blankets. Bifur had the watch just then; he was leaning up against an outcrop of rock a few feet away that he seemed to find particularly cosy. It wouldn’t do for the company’s burglar to just _vanish_ without a word to anyone, no. His unexplained absence would cause panic, were it noticed, and he hated to think of Bifur of all people on the receiving end of Thorin’s wrath. But there were  many reasons for one of the company to take a little stroll at night, so Bilbo strolled meaningfully past Bifur, thumb sliding against the ring in his pocket, but taking care to remain quite visible for the moment.

“It’s quiet tonight,” he remarked with deliberate casualness, leaning momentarily up against Bifur’s rocks. “ _Utuktai,_ ” answered Bifur gravely, and Bilbo casually nodded his head, agreeing to whatever it was Bifur had said. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he added, and he gave Bifur a friendly little wave. Then he headed out into the darkness to Bifur’s right, away from the soft glow of the campfire, and away from his direct line of sight. There weren’t any trees to be had here—not even any little scrubby bushes—but a couple minutes’ stumbling in the dark brought him far enough away from the campsite, shrouded him in sufficient darkness, that he judged it safe to vanish.

He slipped the ring on.

The light shifted. He could see better now, although the world was muted and blurred in soft greys. Everything was less distinct and less colourful, for all that it was somehow more visible. He unbuttoned his trousers quickly, reached down into his underthings, and took a quick look around, just to be sure he was safe, before he started in earnest. There was Bifur, merrily whittling at something as he kept watch, not at all looking in Bilbo’s direction, and there were the all the dwarves, sleeping.

All the dwarves, save Thorin, who shifted restlessly and sat up, casting his eyes around until they almost seemed to alight on Bilbo. Ordinarily, Bilbo would have found it challenging to meet that gaze, so bright and fierce it was, all of Thorin’s fire and determination held within it. But now, since he was conveniently invisible, Bilbo found it much easier to look back, even if his trousers were half undone now, even if he was exposed and vulnerable (and touching himself).

Thorin could not possibly know where he was, in the dark. And he throbbed, and he ached, and he very much needed to take care of it before Bifur wondered what had become of him.

And so Bilbo looked away from Thorin. His hand moved roughly over his flesh, skin sliding freely up and down. His grip was firm, firm now as when he held a sword; his palm was callused. The needs of his body had been put off for so long, and he had been so transformed in that short time. It almost felt like it was someone else touching him.

He looked back at Thorin.

In the past, self-pleasure had never been a particularly imaginative act for Bilbo. It had been a bit solitary and routine, and the society he had known in Hobbiton provided him with little in the way of inspiration. Now, though… perhaps Bilbo could trace the first reawakenings of this particular need to that moment when Thorin had wrapped him up, embraced him, praised him, worried for him. Staring across the dark at Thorin’s outline, he could almost feel and smell the furs of his great surcoat tickling his nose as Thorin crushed him to his chest again and again as he rewound the memory in his head, like a music box or a clock.

His hand worked faster, pumping furiously as he plaited rising lust and old remembrance together. He added a thread of imagination, picturing Thorin looking at him knowingly, and the thought made him blush from toes to ears. He gripped himself _hard_ with his right hand, the fingers of his left digging deep into his thighs as he knelt in the open Wilderlands, letting night and magic hide him.

In a moment of want and forgetfulness, Bilbo forgot that he was merely _invisible_ , not wholly  _imperceptible_.

He groaned.

The ears of dwarves were sharper and more sensitive than Bilbo might have guessed, and it was, after all, a quiet night. Bifur stirred, his eyes darting towards Bilbo—but as he saw nothing there, he merely scratched his forehead, next to the protruding axe, and went back to his whittling.

Thorin, however, perked up, his head tilted with curiosity, ears angled towards Bilbo. Bilbo’s breath quickened—perhaps his breath was audible, or perhaps Thorin was more suspicious than Bifur. Rising to his feet, he crept slowly forward, towards where Bilbo knelt half-clothed on the grass.  It was no use. His plan had failed. If he stayed where he was, if he kept on like this, he’d be caught. As silently as he could, he rearranged his underthings and fastened up his trousers, which were now much too tight. Rising, he backed away from Thorin in a wide arc, angling around his line of sight until he was well over to the side, and then, when he was certain no one was looking his way, he popped the ring off.

The world returned.

Bilbo wrapped himself up on his jacket as best he might, to hide his disarray, and started walking back towards the camp as if he had merely been out for a midnight stroll, letting the flicker of firelight guide him. As he neared Bifur, who was now accompanied in his watch by Thorin, he was greeted with a cry of “ _zirak akdâmuthrab!_ ” from the former. Much to his simultaneous elation and woe, he was embraced warmly by the latter, whose face was pinched in an expression that Bilbo now recognized as more concern than anger.

But now Thorin’s affection and concern for him put him at a disadvantage. Thorin would know what he had been doing, or at least, would know how he was feeling. He had to know. Thorin had pulled Bilbo close, crushed him into his chest, wrapped his arms tightly around Bilbo’s lighter frame. If Bilbo could feel the evidence of his frustration trapped throbbing against Thorin’s thigh, well—his trousers were of fairly thin stuff. Surely Thorin would be able to feel it too. And indeed, when Thorin finally broke the hug and set Bilbo free, Bilbo could see that his cheeks were tinted crimson.

“We heard some noises,” Thorin explained gruffly. “Bifur told me you’d wandered off to do your… business. There are still some wargs out in this country. I was worried you might not find your way back to us.” He coughed ever so slightly. “But I should know better by now, master hobbit. Your business is your own. You can survive in the wild, and it would seem there are no wargs after all. Not tonight.”

Thorin’s eyes flicked downwards, taking in the dishevelled state of Bilbo’s clothes, and then back up to his face. He looked at Bilbo long and hard, some unanswered question in his shadowed gaze. Bilbo steeled himself. He did not avert his eyes.

“It is late, master hobbit. You should sleep,” said Thorin, breaking the long silence. “But if you are still… unsettled, I will see to it that no one disturbs you.”

“I… that’s very kind of you Thorin,” answered Bilbo. “I’m sure I don’t need any help tonight.”

“I think you do,” said Thorin, who placed his hand on the small of Bilbo’s back to escort him towards the fire. Turning briefly to Bifur, he muttered “ _Ma jalai’gil id-nannar._ ”  Then he guided Bilbo back to his bedroll and, to Bilbo’s mortification, sat down with him.

Thorin cleared his throat.

“It is natural, what you wished to do,” he began, his voice a low rumble, barely audible outside the little circle of their conversation. “But it is not worth endangering yourself unnecessarily. I assure you, no one would disrupt you, if you took your relief here quietly. Nor do I think you would prove unpopular among our comrades, if you wished the aid and comfort of a shield-brother.”

By the time Thorin had finished speaking, he was quite as scarlet as Bilbo’s coat, and Bilbo’s eyebrows had shot up past the fringe that shaded his eyes. But in spite of his obvious fluster, Thorin reached out and took Bilbo’s hand, settling it on his own thigh. Then he drew Bilbo’s hand up, ever up, and though there were several layers of jerkin and tunic between Bilbo’s hand and Thorin’s body, the shape he felt there was fairly unmistakable.

“Oh…” breathed Bilbo, eyes darting back and forth between his hand and Thorin’s face. He thought he might recognize the look in Thorin’s eyes now—a sort of offer. Tentatively, he took Thorin’s hand and placed it on his thigh, where he would easily be able to feel the heat and hardness that he had plainly taken note of earlier.

Indeed, Thorin needed no further prompting; he slid his hand directly where Bilbo had intended, first massaging him through the fabric of his trousers, then deftly undoing the buttons for more direct access. Bilbo, for his part, rose onto his knees and crushed himself against Thorin, snaking his hand underneath layers of clothing, undoing bits of lacing, and finally grasping his hand around the treasure he sought. He had seen Thorin naked and bathing before—they had all seen each other, at this point, excesses of modesty having been left behind with handkerchiefs—but Bilbo found that touching was quite another thing, an overwhelming thing.

Bilbo’s ardour had understandable cooled a little during his terribly awkward encounter with Bifur and Thorin, but dwarven hands were deft indeed, and he soon responded eagerly to Thorin’s skilled caresses, his body moving in rhythm with Thorin’s hands. His own, he feared, were clumsy, so clumsy that he hastily muttered an apology. “Don’t know about dwarvish ways,” he huffed, “but hobbits don’t… really… have shield-brothers.” His breath was coming fast now, and he feared he would reach his peak all too soon. “S’been awhile.”  

Thorin silenced him by covering Bilbo’s mouth with his own, using his free hand to tug lightly on Bilbo’s honey-coloured hair. His eyes fluttered closed, and he moaned into Thorin’s mouth, utterly lost in sensation. His reaction sparked a surge of lust in Thorin, who thrust wildly up into Bilbo’s hand whilst grabbing him and pulling him straight into his lap. His movements grew erratic, and his kisses, possessive. Thorin invaded Bilbo’s mouth, and with the softest of swallowed groans, he shuddered against Bilbo, clutching him tighter as wet heat spilled over Bilbo’s hand.

In his surprise, Bilbo broke the kiss; his eyes flew open. Though quiet in his pleasure, Thorin looked completely debauched. His face was red and damp with sweat, dark curls clinging about his forehead, braids fuzzy and frizzy. His mouth was open as he panted with satiation and exertion. And though he looked utterly lost, still his hands were unceasing in their efforts to bring Bilbo similar pleasure.

Bilbo could hold back no longer. With a rhythmless stutter of his hips, he gave himself over to pleasure, spilling and spilling months of frustration, until he thought he would be drained entirely. He let himself fall limply against Thorin, resting against his solid chest. After what they had just done, there didn’t seem to be a point in self-consciousness.

Thorin, who was clearly in agreement, wiped his hand clean on the grass. Then he wrapped his arms around Bilbo much as he had done when they had embraced previously, although now, it felt inexplicably deeper. “So that’s what shield-brothers do, is it,” Bilbo mumbled into Thorin’s metal-studded jerkin. The metal felt cool on his damp skin, and he turned his face out into the gentle night breeze.

“Yes,” nodded Thorin, whose chin bumped softly against the top of Bilbo’s head as he spoke. “We are _umrâl_.”

“ _Umrâl_ ,” Bilbo repeated, and then he yawned.

Thorin laughed, a nearly inaudible rumble. “I was to see you to bed, was I not, _umralê_?” Carefully, he eased Bilbo’s boneless body off his lap, and helped him under the blankets. And then, perhaps more surprising than anything else that had happened that night, he leaned down and pressed his forehead to Bilbo’s, and for a quiet moment, they inhaled each other’s breaths.

“More than anyone, the quest depends on you, Bilbo,” said Thorin finally. “Perhaps you can take care of yourself in the wild, but you need not do so alone.”

Then Thorin rose, quiet as the night itself, and tucked himself into his own bedroll which—Bilbo noticed now—was not very far away.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Nick Cave, “Plain Gold Ring.” (Ok, it’s about loving a married woman, but how could I resist?)
> 
> Neo-Khuzdul Glossary:  
>  _Utuktai_ = “Too silent.”  
>  _zirak akdâmuthrab_ = “master burglar”  
>  _Ma jalai’gil id-nannar._ = “Don’t tell the others.”  
>  _umrâl_ = “lovers” or “close friends.” Thanks, Neo-Khuzdul, for bolstering my headcanon that while dwarves love only once, they’re totally down for fuckbuddy relationships.  
>  _umralê_ = “my beloved”/“my dear friend”
> 
> All Neo-Khuzdul is based on the works of The Dwarrow Scholar.


End file.
